


(Nourishment 2.9) Black Coffee in Bed

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance, episode-related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-18
Updated: 2003-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-01 06:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/353224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lazy Sunday</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Nourishment 2.9) Black Coffee in Bed

## (Nourishment 2.9) Black Coffee in Bed

by Janet F. Caires-Lesgold

<http://jfc.freeshell.org/stories.html>

* * *

Title: BLACK COFFEE IN BED (Nourishment 2.9) Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold  
Feedback to: jfc013@merle.it.northwestern.edu Archive: Mailing list archives only--others please ask permission! Category: Story, angst, romance, Lex POV Spoilers: Missing scene from "Visage" (also refers to "Skinwalker") Rating: NC-17 for language and m/m sexual interaction Pairing: Clark/Lex established relationship Summary: A lazy Sunday 

DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me. Smallville is the property of Alfred Gough, Miles Millar, Tollin-Robbins Productions, and Warner Bros. Television, and based upon characters originally created by Jerome Siegel and Joe Shuster. This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The rest of "The Nourishment Series" can be found elsewhere on this archive - Enjoy! 

DEDICATION: For Tiff--Happy Valentine's Day! 
    
    
    COPYRIGHT:  (C) Janet F. Caires-Lesgold         February 17, 2003
                    jfc013@merle.it.northwestern.edu
    

Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much. 

* * *

Clark didn't go to church today. 

Instead, he's here with me, in bed. 

I've never had a reason to spend lazy Sunday mornings in bed before, but for the past couple of weeks, it's started to feel like a good idea. I could get used to a routine like this: my father heads to Metropolis on Saturday night, and Clark comes creeping in sometime after the chopper disappears over the treetops and crawls between the sheets beside me. After a night spent in each other's arms, we can sit here peacefully naked in the morning, sipping coffee and scribbling, me in the Sunday Planet crossword puzzle, and him on homework. 

This phenomenon that has become an essential part of my week originally wasn't my idea at all. The lovely bedwarmer beside me is here because of his _mother_ , of all people. 

The evening that Clark's friend Kyla died, I had been sitting up late in the conservatory with a snifter of brandy and a good book after the police had left and the board-up company had finished with the window. When the bell rang, I had to go to the door myself, as the rest of the help was already asleep. There on my doorstep was Martha with my lover in tow, handing me a backpack of his things. After giving me a hug (which she does only when no one can see us but Clark), she pushed the boy at me and said, "I think he needs you. Take care of him." 

As quickly as she had arrived, she was gone, and Clark just stood there, strangely still and silent. "Clark?" I began, reaching for him. 

He didn't quite shrug out of my grasp, but he didn't even look me in the eye as he turned away before I could embrace him as his mother had embraced me. "Hi, Lex," he answered, far too quietly and a few too many seconds late. 

I recognized the signs immediately--here was a man shattered by grief and shock, not knowing quite where to turn or what to do. Only one course of action presented itself to me: I grabbed his wrist and started dragging him behind me to the stairs. 

"Where are we going?" he asked dully. 

"To bed," I replied, as if it were obvious. 

At once he dug in his heels and refused to budge. His eyes regarded me desperately. "No, Lex. Not tonight. I couldn't..." 

Tenderly, I pulled his head to my lips and kissed his cheek with a reassuring smile. "Not to make love, beautiful. To _sleep_." 

"Oh," he said, unlocking his knees and following me almost as an afterthought. 

We must have made a lot of noise on the steps, as my father stuck his head out of his room to investigate as we passed. "Lex? Did the police come back?" he called, staring right past us. 

"No, Dad. Everything's fine. Go back to bed." I ignored him and continued to my door, looking back at his disheveled, sightless expression before I shut myself in my room with my beloved, who really needed my help. 

His mother must have coerced him to exchange his blood-stained clothing for this fresh outfit, but it was almost impossible to get him undressed to go to sleep. After a few minutes of struggling, I left him alone in the bathroom and went to turn down the bed. I was actually dozing when he finally made it to his pillow and lay down stiffly. 

Rolling to face him, I watched as he stretched out on his back, staring straight up. "Do you need anything, Clark?" I whispered, reaching across the expanse of Egyptian cotton to brush a hair away from his eye. 

"No," he answered, shaking his head for emphasis and effectively evading my touch. 

Not sure he wanted to hear it right then, I swallowed back my "I love you" and instead wished him "Good night," adding a supportive "I'm not going anywhere." Aside from a small nod to show that he'd heard me, he made no further response. I watched my friend for as long as I could, sleep eventually sneaking up on me while I worried to myself at the distant look in his eyes and the cold set of his lips. 

In the morning, I woke to find him still beside me, still gazing blankly at the ceiling between short inadvertent naps which always ended with him startling awake and emitting a small cry. That day there was no school (due to some state-sanctioned Friday holiday), so I canceled my appointments and conducted business via my cell and laptop, which Enrique brought in without comment along with breakfast. Clark wouldn't touch even a piece of toast, so I sipped at my orange juice and kept my eye on him. All of my attempts at comforting touches or offers to bring food or listen to his troubles were rebuffed softly, so I let him lie there undisturbed while staying nearby just in case. 

I called Martha every eight hours or so to report on Clark while he slept, but mostly we stayed in that room alone for the better part of two days. My lover barely spoke, ate nothing, and only got up to go to the bathroom a few times a day. Paperwork and novels kept my mind engaged during the day while my heart worked overtime in concern for the young man lying in my bed, and the second night passed not unlike the first. 

Saturday's late afternoon sun stabbed through the gaps in the heavy curtains at the window when he finally stirred as if waking up from a deep sleep. "Lex?" he called to me in a dry whisper, his hands emerging from under the covers to beckon me to his side. 

Crouching on the floor next to him, I took his hand in mine. "Baby? You okay?" I asked at last. 

"No," he answered, a crack in his voice as he tugged me by the hand into bed with him. I climbed in beside him, whereupon he flung his arms and legs around me and clung to me tightly as he cried hard against my neck for quite awhile. Holding him close, I stroked his hair and exhaled for what seemed like the first time since his mother had brought him to me, taking my own comfort by giving him all I could. 

When he had quieted enough to speak, I said simply, "You feel that you failed her." 

"Yes," he confirmed with a sob. 

"Did you love her?" 

"No," he replied, his tone matching his heartbroken state for the first time. "I could have... I might have if I'd known her longer, but no--I didn't." 

"And that's what hurts, isn't it? That you never got the chance to try." 

A long sniffle and cough preceded his answer of "Yeah." 

Some part of me wanted to ask him how intimate he'd been with the girl, but somehow it seemed both inappropriate to do so and unlikely that he'd gotten very far, given the short time they'd spent together. "It's okay," I assured him instead. "It'll only get better now." 

"Thank you, Lex," he sighed, pulling back and looking at me with tears still running down his face. "I love you." 

"I love you, too," I repeated, drawing him back against my body carefully and letting him nestle against me. As I held him and let him cry himself out, I thought of my own situation: while I'd never lost anyone I was growing to care for very much, neither had I really cared about anyone sufficiently, since I'd been a child, anyway, for it to have made a difference. That was, not until I'd met Clark Kent. Even with my father's demands that we form alliances with partners of the opposite sex, I always held on to the knowledge that Clark was the first, and possibly the only, person in my adult life whom I could not bear to lose. 

Once he'd gotten it all out of his system, I encouraged him to shower and get dressed, then to join me downstairs for a hot dinner. We spent a quiet evening at home, talking and playing pool, then retiring to get the good night's sleep we both needed. 

The next day a new tradition was born. I awakened to find his green eyes shining at me, as if he'd drawn me out of a sound sleep by the powers of his mind alone. Before I could even ask what time it was, he was kissing me deeply and fumbling at my pajamas. It was moments later when I discovered that I rather liked being fucked early on a Sunday morning before I'd even read the paper. The fact that I was being fucked early on a Sunday morning _by Clark_ probably added to the enjoyment a great deal. 

Our Sundays have been like this for about a month now. No matter what else is going on in our separate lives, we take the time to wake up together on Sunday mornings, make love, and reconnect slowly away from the rest of the world. The stereo hums some electric guitars for Clark, and Charles Osgood chatters peacefully on the television for me as we savor the best coffee available on earth. 

A commercial for the U.S. Marine Corps distracts Clark from his studies, and I watch as a shadow crosses his face. I put down my paper and take his hand on top of the covers, pulling his solemn gaze back to me. "I'm sorry about the quarterback," I offer consolingly. 

"Me, too," he replies. "I'm glad I got the chance to make my peace with Whitney before he left. I promised that I'd keep an eye on Lana for him." 

A gallows-style chuckle escapes through my nose. "So I bet you're going to follow through on that now, aren't you?" 

He picks up his mug, mostly to fidget with it. "I don't know if I can. Lana's probably in grieving mode right now, so it would be pretty low of me to make a move on her while she's vulnerable." 

"Wow," I marvel, "how noble of you!" I think he can tell I'm mostly teasing. 

"Hey, it's not like I don't know anything about grieving mode, Lex!" he razzes me back, which I totally deserve, reminded as I am of what brought him here. 

"So, you give her some downtime, then take it slow." 

"Which is exactly what I am going to do," he affirms, a sly twinkle in his eye. Before I can change the subject, he does it for me. "So, how's it going with the lady doc?" 

I set down my coffee and pinch my eyebrows together. "Ugh. Not good." 

"She's still pissed at the investigation, isn't she?" Ah, he knows about _that_ too well, doesn't he? 

"Right first time. I think I blew it. Why can't I remember that background checks aren't standard operating procedure for ordinary people?" 

He watches me with a fond smile. "Funny--you're not acting like you think she's that 'ordinary'..." 

"You're two for two, Clark. Leave it to my father to try and make her break up with me when he realized that his plan had worked too well. Here he'd assumed that I'd never find a woman that suited me, and I'd have to break up with _you_ after all. Guess I fooled him: I ended up with an open-minded girlfriend and you, too! He was forced to take desperate measures to try to make me miserable, but it didn't work, at least not the way he meant it to. If he insists on my having a female consort, I could do a lot worse than Helen. I hope I'm not being overly optimistic, but this one seems worth salvaging. She gives me the impression that she could be different from all the other girls, like she doesn't really want anything from me." 

"Except maybe an apology?" 

For a moment, I am actually speechless. "You may have something there. But what would I say?" 

"Lemme think about it... I'll write you something." 

"Oh, yeah," I reply, rolling my eyes. "Like _you're_ so good with women!" 

"Hey--maybe she'll like the clumsy approach. She might think you're cute." 

"That'll never work." 

"Works on _me_..." 

"Huh?" I ask confusedly. 

He fixes me with an intense gaze. " _I_ think you're cute already." 

"Oh," I answer stupidly, a shy smile creeping up to my eyes. 

Pursuing another line of thinking entirely, he continues. "So, I've been right at least twice this morning. Are you open for a hat trick?" 

"What?" 

Under the covers, his hand creeps across to my lap, his fingers darting between my legs and down under my balls intimately. The grin on his face is tinged with equal parts of playfulness and pure evil. He repeats, "You open?" 

"You scamp," I scold. "Here I am, whining about a girl, and you want to have sex. Just what do you think you're doing?" 

Once he sets aside his schoolwork, he leans over and kisses me enticingly. Pulling back with a devilish smile, he answers, "Reminding you what's _really_ important." Boldly, he reaches further down and begins teasing my anal sphincter with a fingertip. "So, you wanna be able to see the TV or not?" 

I set my good pen down on the nightstand carefully and fling the newspaper across the room. "Surprise me," I reply, succumbing once again to his lips on mine. 

A little roughly, he coaxes me up from my pillow and stretches me out on my stomach toward the opposite end of the bed. After some bedside table digging, he returns to my side and sets some supplies just beyond my peripheral vision. Strong fingers massage my shoulders, and I rest my head on my folded arms to relish his attention. With a pat on my butt, he encourages me to lift up my hips to allow him to cram a pillow underneath me, and I settle in for the ride. 

While a casually-dressed fellow on the television describes the making of a new movie, the rest of my concentration is devoted to Clark as he places soft, slow kisses down my spine and works his knuckles into the knots he finds in the muscles of my back. Strong thumbs knead my sides right above my hipbones, making me want to squirm ticklishly, but I don't dare move. My eyes slip shut at the sensation of his warm palms stroking the cheeks of my ass, and the head of my cock bumps against the pillow beneath me in response. 

My Clark must have been doing a little reading on his own, for I feel a powerful, dexterous, and very _wet_ muscle pry into my hole, making my eyes fly back open again. He's never rimmed me before, and I've never asked him to try it, but he goes at it like he's been saving this maneuver for a special occasion. I can't hear the TV anymore, as someone is making some awful howling moan that drowns it out. The tongue inside my ass vibrates as he hums and chuckles behind me, and I suddenly realize that the one making the other, almost animalistic noises must be me. 

Huge hands keep me from grinding into the pillow like I want to do, and suddenly, the object in my anus is removed with a little "pop". I am so aroused that I cannot react to the delighted snickering coming from my lover, but simply lie there rigidly and wait for him to touch me again. A lubed fingertip pushes inside me at last, its range an inch or so beyond the reach of his tongue, and presses firmly against my prostate, making me jump like I've touched a spark. He opens me up with a scissoring motion of his fingers, then retreats for the main event of the morning. 

The blunt head of his thick cock spears me hotly and slowly, fitting perfectly like a key in a lock. His hard knees press against the backs of my thighs and spread me apart to let him in even deeper. With his left arm slung around my collarbone, he holds my back against his broad chest as his right hand slides into the space left by the pillow and grasps my penis firmly. No longer the unsure virgin he once was, he fucks my ass hard and strokes my cock confidently as if it were his own. 

"Who loves you the most?" he growls into my ear, thrusting steadily inside me. 

"You do," I grunt out as best I can against his onslaught. 

"Who do you let fuck you like this?" 

"Only you." 

"Whose ass it this?" 

" _Yours_ ," I groan into my clenched fist. "All yours." 

"Mine," he mutters finally, biting down hard on the back of my neck. With his next stroke, he pushes hard against my slit with his thumb, and I spurt everything I've got on the cotton pillowcase. He plunges himself as deep as he can into my body and explodes into the condom separating us, letting his head fall limply onto my shoulder when he is spent. 

I wriggle contentedly in Clark's arms for a moment, then turn back into the shaggy hair tickling my ear. "I love you," I whisper to the motionless lump weighting me against the mattress. 

"Love you, too," he breathes, clutching me a little tighter and falling asleep on top of me. 

With a helpless chuckle, I give in and take a snooze of my own under him. 

Clark didn't go to church today, and, as usual, neither did I. On the whole, I believe I got a lot more out of staying home and worshiping _him_. 

**THE END**


End file.
